There were thousands of women's shoes scattered along the right lane of the highway. No truck overturned, no flares sparking against the road. Just the shoes and my wife yelling for me to pull over.
     We'd just left the hospital for another round of chemo, and a minute earlier she was headed for the couch—a pile of magazines and a TV guide in the back. But now she had one hand on the door handle and her head out the window.
     They looked high-end&nbssp;a vast mishmash, flung here and there, and finding a pair that matched, and a pair that fit, seemed incredibly unlikely, and the last thing I wanted was to be rear-ended by some rubbernecker dazzled by the sight. But no matter there she was out of the car among them, a little wobbly, but bent over like a happy farmer, forming the front of her housedress into a basket and filling it with careful selections. Running a hand over the colorful landscape. Registering a small flare of excitement as she pulled another from the clutter.
     Then finally, her basket full, she slow-walked through the lumpy sprawl and stood in front of the car, unfurled her dress and let her catch fall. Trying them on, one by one, leaning against the hood—four pairs. Smiling, posing—brighter than I've seen her in far too long, settling on the cherry-red pumps, a little loose, but what did that matter? They matched, so she'd already beaten the odds, and we drove off with them in her lap, not saying anything.